When I arrived at LAX, I soon discovered that instead of continuing my trip on a series of small narrow-bodied jets like the one that made the twenty minute hop from Palm Springs to LAX, I would now spend the next few hours comfortably seated in an empty center row of seats aboard a spacious Air Canada Boeing 777. I had the use of two overhead compartments to store my carry-on suitcase and computer bag, ample leg room, and no one in the seat in front of me to invade my space with a seat back.
If there were any doubt about being on my way to Canada, aboard a Canadian airline…
If there were any doubt about being on my way to Canada, aboard a Canadian airline, it was soon laid to rest as I was treated to a steady chorus of, “Sorry,” “Oops, sorey,” and “Sorey, eh?” as my fellow passengers, luggage in tow, made their way down the aisles.
Prior to boarding, I sent Jon a text message giving him my new flight number and scheduled arrival time at Pearson International Airport, even though I knew it would be at least two hours before he’d be able to use his cell phone again. Once airborne, I would be equally out of touch, if for no other reason than I’m too cheap to pay for inflight Wi-Fi service.
The flight from Los Angeles to Toronto was smooth and lovely without even so much as a hint of turbulence. There was a power outlet in my seat for my iPad, which allowed me to watch, uninterrupted, the movie I’d downloaded the day before.
All in all it was one of the most pleasant modern day flights I’d ever had.
Navigating an unfamiliar airport for the first time, on the other hand, was a challenge, doubly so in my case since I would be clearing Pearson’s Customs point of entry for the first time.
No sooner had I exited the plane than I was caught up in the swift moving flow of passengers being shuttled down, up, and around a warren of corridors, stairwells and narrow passages all designed to dump us, as well as arrivals from dozens of other international flights, out at the Canadian POE.
By the time I arrived, I had been walking, more aptly marching, for ten full minutes lugging a rolling carry-on and a computer bag. I was completely turned around and fiercely in need of a restroom, not one of which had been available since deplaning.
Just as hundreds of my fellow travelers and I were about to emerge from yet another long corridor I spied a small men’s room just to the right of the entry to the cavernous POE hall.
As only a bureaucratic mind could, someone had decided this restroom, capable of accommodating no more than four people at a time, would be sufficient for an entry hall serving thousands of travelers a day.
Nearly twenty minutes after first setting foot in Canada I emerged from the men’s room, free to step to the side for a moment and catch my breath, or so I thought. It didn’t take long before I was quickly shuttled into one of the two giant queues snaking their way through the hall.
My first stop was at a bank of kiosks used to record your entry and declarations data. As many of us had filled in these forms on cramped economy class tray tables aboard vibrating jets the scanners were having a great deal of difficulty making out our answers.
Declarations complete, the machine spit out a slip we were told to hold up, along with our at-the-ready passports, as we came to the exit of the second half of our quickly moving queue. I don’t know what the code on my entry slip said, but I was waved through two more check points and hustled through a series of heavily reinforced electronic doors and out into the main terminal.
“I’ll keep circling till I see you.”
Finally I was able to find a spot to sit, rest my luggage, take out my phone and log into the Pearson’s public Wi-Fi. No sooner had I accepted the terms of service than the notification chime for the Apple Message app began going off, repeatedly.
I had eight messages waiting for me, all from Jonny Bear—I couldn’t teach Siri to understand or pronounce Breithaupt.
“Test over, think I did well.”
“Long drive to airport probably won’t get there before you. Can you take a shuttle to hotel?”
“Traffic not bad, making good time to Pearson.”
“Looks like your flight is on time.”
“I’m nearing Pearson, should be able to meet your plane.”
“You’ve landed, should take you about 20 min to clear customs. I’m nearing airport exit now.”
“I’ll pick you up out front on the upper deck between section E and F.”
“I’ll keep circling till I see you.”
His last message was just three minutes ago. The Customs point of entry is on the lower Arrivals level of Pearson. I found the nearest escalator and made a mad dash for the upper level. I located sections E and F, parked myself smack dab in the middle of them and began perusing oncoming traffic. I wasn’t even sure what I was supposed to be looking for. All I knew was that Jon drove a Kia hatchback of some kind, which I thought was silver grey. It’s actually black.
As usual when anticipating the start of what promises to be an exciting experience, relativity raised its ugly head and while I probably stood on that curb for no more than five minutes it felt like hours.
Anticipation and anxiety building within me, I was a bit perplexed when I thought I could faintly hear my name being called out from behind me. I turned and looked, but couldn’t make out anyone in particular in the sea of travelers moving about the deck.
“Chuck,” came the voice again, this time stronger and much more familiar in tone. Finally I could see Jon making his way through the throngs of people toward me.
He made his way to me and we hugged.
“I thought you were going to keep circling until I got out here?” I said.
“I went around once and decided it would be easier to park,” Jon said while picking up my carry-on bag.
“Follow me,” he said as we headed back toward the terminal and began what seemed like the oddest and perhaps the most disorienting march of the day.
Within steps of the doorway to the main terminal I was struck with a profound sense of deja vu. From the minute we began walking, Jonny began talking. It was a steady stream of consciousness discourse that struck me as being oddly familiar.
Jonny was chatting away every bit as vigorously as I had the evening I met him at the Palm Springs airport. On and on he went as we wove our way around the terminal and up to skybridge deck that connected the parking structure to the main terminal. I don’t think I got in ten words during the entire hike.
Finally we arrived at Jonny’s car. I stepped back as he swung the rear hatch open. In my mind, Griselda, Brain and I stood side by side watching as he turned facing me and for the first time since seeing one another again he stopped talking.
He stood there opposite me just having raised the hatch and stared directly, not at me, past me or through me but deeply into me. Inside I could hear each of the three of us in turn say.
“Oh…”
“My…”
“God!”
He took my bags and placed them in the back of his car, closed the hatch and then hugged me again, not a Hi glad to see you hug but a strong firm powerful, I don’t want to let go hug and then we kissed.
“She’s right,” Brain said somewhat breathlessly as he fell into a chair. Then looking directly at Griselda, “She’s been right from the very beginning.”
He looked up at me.
“That man couldn’t be happier to see you if he were eight years old, it was Christmas morning, and you were Santa Claus with a sack full of toys.”
Welcome to Toronto.
Edited by
Kenneth Larsen
Next Up: Yours To Discover
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Very nice. Great chapter.